


I Don’t Want To Be You Anymore

by riverofyou



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Depression, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Siblings, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverofyou/pseuds/riverofyou
Summary: They’re both hurting in different ways.





	I Don’t Want To Be You Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna be a fic but I don’t like it enough to extend it

"So, Brendon, what seems to be the problem? Several of your teachers have noticed that you've become more tired. Subdued. One even said that you started crying, in the middle of an exam?"

Brendon says nothing, his normally expressive eyes dull. The laminated pass that reads "GUIDANCE" in big, shiny letters is clutched in between lifeless hands. Hands that are normally animated, full of life. 

"Brendon?" Ms. Kauffman says, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and her glossy hair hanging in her face. "Brendon, you've been going to this school since Pre-K. I've been here for all of your academic life. I diagnosed you with ADHD. I was here when you got your first solo in Choir. I've been in this school for every demerit, every perfect test score, every science fair and spelling bee. I know you, Brendon Boyd, quite well, I might add. Now, you can sit here for the rest of the period, not saying anything, and then I'll send you on your not-so-merry way to your next class, and this issue will go on, or you can tell me what's happening."

Brendon looks up, and goddamn it, he feels it. His lower lip slowly begins to quiver, and his vision grows blurry. "I..." He begins, and then he lets out a soft, strangled sob, and he looks exactly like a kicked puppy. Ms. Kauffman frowns, and then she grabs a box of tissues, handing them to Brendon. He declines, shaking his head. 

"I can't breathe,  sometimes, you know." Brendon says, his voice hoarce, and the guidance councilor frowns, letting her pen hover above her pad of paper. "What do you mean? Elaborate."

Brendon gulps, his Adam's Apple bobbing. "Because of the stress. It sometimes just hits me, you know? It's a lot. My parents expect me to watch my little siblings when they work the late shift. I have schoolwork, and quizzes, and studying. Everyone asks me what I want to do with life, and hell. I never have a coherent answer, because I never know. But the worst part is the lies I have to tell, Ms. K. They eat away at my insides, y'know?"

The councilor blinks. "No, I can't say that I know. Brendon, you aren't... hurting yourself, are you?" She asks, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. It shines in the light, Brendon notes. If the circumstances were different, if he were older and straight, he could see himself dating her. Tall and dark haired-definitely his type.

But what was the question? Oh, right. 

"No, I'm not." He says smoothly. "The lies are about the lifestyle I partake in." 

"And what would that lifestyle be?"

"I'm gay. And I don't believe in God." Also, he smokes pot and is onto a new guy every week, but some things are best left unsaid, Brendon decides. 

"And what's the problem there?"

"My parents are Mormon."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

There's a moment of silence, and then she clears her throat. "Do you think they'd accept you, if you.. came out, Brendon?"

Why does she keep saying his name? And making eye contact? Is she trying to be his friend? Brendon doesn't want to be friends. He has those. 

He just wants to be normal again.

"No. No, they'd kick me out." He says flatly, and she blanches. "But you're their child." She says, frowning, and Brendon has to grimace, because, well, he knows. Shitty hand of cards, dealt by fate.

"I'm the oldest, though. They'd be scared of me. They think homosexuality is an illness, and they'd treat me as if I was contaminated."

She nods. "Well. Well, then, why don't we keep this between us?" She comments softly, and Brendon suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, because he's been 'keeping it between us' (us being whoever he confides his secret to) since the 8th Grade, when he popped a boner while watching George Ross playing Volleyball in gym. George Ross. Now there's a name he hasn't thought about in a while.

Brendon realizes that she's talking again, and he silently curses ADHD to the pits of hell, because goddamn, he can't focus on anything for the life of him. It's not his fault, really. He just gets a thought that's more interesting than what's being discussed, and his mind goes all swirly and he stops caring so much, gets caught up in the fantasy. It's not a bad thing. It makes passing the time all that much easier, and when he can steal a moment for himself (a rare but joyus occasion) he'll go out into the woods, smoke a joint, and just... imagine. 

It also makes masturbating easier, because, well, his mind just sort of fills in the blanks. Brendon has never even seen porn, which is more than most of his peers can say.

It's kind of a fucked up point of pride.

"-and of course, medication is possible, but I know you haven't always had the best side effects with it. So for now, find something that helps you get through this anxiousness. A... coping mechanism, of sorts. A stress reliever, if you will. What always makes you feel better?"

Weed. "Uh, I dunno, honestly." He mutters, and she bites her lip. 

"Well. Relief sometimes pops up in funny situations, my friend. I'm sure you'll find something that helps you get through your day soon. Now, we seem to be done here... remember, my doors are always open. What class do you have right now?" She asks, sliding a pair of reading glasses on and grabbing a small stack of hall passes. 

"Research and Communication Literacy." Brendon recites, and she nods. "Do you have Matte for that?" 

"Yup."

"Alrighty! Well.. here." She says, handing him the slip. "Have a good rest of your day. And hey, think about what cools you down, alright?" She says, looking up at Brendon and beaming.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

"Good! Hopefully soon, we'll have our old, smiley Brenny back." She says, and Brendon only jerks his head forward in an awkward sort of nod, before waving a quick goodbye and stepping out into the waiting area.

There are three plastic chairs, sitting next to a table filled with outdated books and magazines. Two of the chairs are empty, but a boy is sitting in the third.

He's skinny, frighteningly so, and he has brown hair that is splayed across his face messily. He has a well sculpted nose and lips that are thin and slightly chapped. Brendon wouldn't recognize him, because he looks so different, but those eyes. Those damn eyes. 

Huge and golden brown, the the size of saucers.

And currently filled with tears.

Brendon didn't think that he could get more delicately beautiful, but there's something that captures his attention about the water that's pooling.

It makes the boy vulnerable.

It reassures him, because at least he isn't the only one. 

 

Brendon stares for a moment, and George stares back too, thin frame shaking like a leaf, until Ms. Kauffman steps out. "George Ro- Brendon, what are you still doing here?"

Brendon blinks once, twice, and snaps out of his daze. "I, uh." He says, and okay, that's not his best comeback. 

"Class." She says sternly, pointing to the door, and Brendon nods. "Right. Yeah."

And off he goes. 

*

When Brendon gets home, he wants to flop on the couch and sleep. But, well, he can't. He has to sit for his younger siblings, and he has several pages of Chemistry and Geometry homework resting in his backpack. Allie, his sister in 7th Grade, should be getting back from school soon, too, and she'll need help with her Pre-Algebra homework. Then, an hour later, he'll have to go wait for the Elementary School bus, to pull his three other siblings off, and surely they'll need homework help/emotional guidance/entertaining. Both of his parents are working late, and Brendon assumes by the lack of money on the table that tonight is not one of the rare nights where his parents allow him to get take-out, and he knows better than to call and grovel.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, and groans as he feels a filmy layer of grease cling to his fingers. Okay, he hasn't showered in a few days, and he needs to, because it shows. So sue him. Lately, he's been feeling less and less motivated as the pressure is piled on everywhere. That isn't Brendon's fault, though. He's just a little sad.

He trudges into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge door and sighing. Not much. His parents need to grocery shop, really, because how is wilted lettuce and maybe-spoiled ham going to feed five kids? Sure, there's cans of soup and Kid Cuisines, but he's going to go insane if his siblings whine about eating those again. Aren't they supposed to love chicken nuggets and GMO-pumped corn? Then again, the novelty of it wears off after a while. 

Brendon hears the front door open, and he braces himself for a bitingly sarcastic remark from Allie followed by a "God, you're so lame, B." and yeah, Allie, he knows. Doesn't mean you should be mean. It hurts his feelings, honestly, but Brendon's so used to being the punching bag (who is struck by both words and tiny fists) that he's stopped attempting to tell her to stop.

"Hey, loser." She says, dropping her pink backpack on the floor and blinking up at him faux-innocently with her eyes, which are soft and the color of bitter chocolate. 

"Hi, Al." He says softly, ruffling her dark hair and wincing lightly as she jerks away from him, her face scrunched up.

"Sorry. I just.." He starts, but sighs, shaking his head. 

"It's whatever. But don't touch me. I don't want BDC."

Brendon furrows his eyebrows. "Is that an STD or something?"

"No. It stands for band dork cooties." She says, poking her tongue out at him, and he just stares, because he can't deal with Allie right now. Dying seems like a really great fucking alternative. 

"You look comatose." She says, placing her hands on her delicate hips, and raising an eyebrow. "..Earth to Brendon? You okay?" She asks, sounding genuinely concerned now.

"I. Yeah. Bad day. Really bad day. But you don't-- it doesn't matter. I, uhm, don't matter. Let's get started on that homework, yeah?"

Brendon wants to rant and rave to her, but the fact of the matter is simply, Allie is twelve and will try and understand Brendon, and she'll vow to be nice to him, and help out, but she won't get it. No one seems to. How can they, when Brendon can hardly convey what he's feeling? 

Besides, Brendon is the adult when his parents aren't home. And adults shouldn't cry to their kids, even though, fuck, Allie isn't his kid and he isn't an adult or a parent and he shouldn't be stuck with this responsibility, not when he feels this bad this awkward this sad--

"Okay. Sounds good." She says, and Brendon and his blank expression are tugged along to the battered kitchen table, leaving his thoughts in the dust.

*

Later that evening, after a blur of homework assignments and temper tantrums and sobbing over bedtimes, Brendon climbs into the shower, peeling off his clothes. Downstairs, he hears the front door open, and he knows it's his mother, probably cranky from work and looking for a fight to pick. 

Brendon turns on the shower, twisting the handle so it's set on painfully hot, and the water burns, and he wants to cry out as the steam stings his skin, but he deserves it, the pain. 

He slowly rubs shampoo in his hair as he reflects on his day, every sarcastic remark and odd thing he said, and wow, people must hate him. He's awful. Mean.

Brendon let out a strangled noise, his chest heaving as the steaming water pours around him, dripping off his eyelashes and nose and mingling with the tears. Salt and soap is choking him, and his eyes sting as his breathing slowly becomes heavier and heavier. 

His whole body sways and heat seems to flow through him, and oh, he's so dizzy. 

In his head, he replays a scene where he raised his hand to talk in English, and winces at the way that he began to ramble on about nothing. In reality, it wasn't as bad as he makes it out to be, but the tears begin to fall more thickly as he remembers the soft giggles and whispers. Brendon whimpers pitifully, and he slowly falls to the floor of the tub, his wet hair clinging to his cheeks, water pelting his skin as his body is raked with sobs, his breathing choked.

If he can't cry to Allie, then he'll cry to the soap, shampoo, and memories.

He marvels at how weak, how helpless he feels, and wishes, prays, even, for a coping mechanism.

He just wants to forget himself, even if it's only for a moment.

Although forever is preferable.


End file.
